


Jolie

by taranoire



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Belly Dancing, Crossdressing, Dancing, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-08 17:31:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4314066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taranoire/pseuds/taranoire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There are baubles in his ears and gold on his eyelids, and Hawke isn’t so sure that this sight is something he is truly meant to see. Fenris, however, has the intent of a predator, so aptly named." Fenris has something he wants to show Hawke.<br/>Gratuitous excuse to write about Fenris dancing/being gorgeous, and the ensuing sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jolie

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kittypistol](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kittypistol/gifts).



> ~"There are baubles in his ears and gold on his eyelids, and Hawke isn’t so sure that this sight is something he is truly meant to see. Fenris, however, has the intent of a predator, so aptly named." Thanks to kittypistol on Tumblr for this prompt!  
> ~Thanks to stuckontrickstermode for the wonderful inspiration for the smut ;3  
> ~Finally, thanks to lingering-nomad for being a consistent help with exchanging ideas and for reading my rough draft. 
> 
> Fenris is...to my tastes, in this fic, and it might not be everyone's cup of tea. That said if pretty, elegant men are your thing you might get a kick out of it. As mentioned in the summary this is a blatantly self-indulgent excuse to write about how lovely Fenris is in my honest opinion.

  
  


His business takes him to Orlais. 

The dwarven expedition was lucrative, but it was years ago and he remembers hunger better than his own father. The fear that one day all of this--the estate, the gold, the food--could be  _gone_ gnaws at him like teeth on bone. He has made and broken many promises in his lifetime, but one that he will hold to above all others is that Fenris will never want for anything. Even should the worst come to pass, even if Hawke should fall in some tragic climax to the Tale of the Champion, Fenris will be cared for. 

He is all Hawke has left. 

The de Launcets have invited him to their family chateau in Val Royeaux, more than generous ever since Hawke allowed their son, Emile, freedom after escaping from the Gallows. The family subsequently invested quite heavily in the mine Hawke acquired a few years ago, with the occasional request that he make an appearance on their behalf. Hawke understands money and politics, despite a humble Fereldan upbringing, and drags Fenris to a decadent Orlesian hotel despite a lot of grumbling and reluctance. 

Fenris stops him before the soiree, fussing over his appearance and smoothing back his untidy hair. Hawke tries to focus on his gentle touch instead of the disconcerting anticipation of the evening. He is a man of the forest, of the hunt, and being among nobility has always caused him anxiety. 

“Your mother would be proud to see you,” Fenris says. 

Hawke breathes deeply, and in doing so inhales Fenris’ scent; dusky leather, tea, and beneath that, poignant as air after a lightning storm, lyrium. He is no mage, but even his blood hums with it. “She adored  _you_.”   
  
Fenris fixes his collar. “I doubt she would have approved of--whatever it is we are.” 

Hawke reaches out to brush his thumb across his cheek, pleased that he closes his eyes and leans into the touch. 

“She did not approve of many things,” Hawke concedes. “But I believe she would have warmed up to the idea, in time.” 

“I recall her wishing that you would marry a noble’s maiden daughter. I am none of those things. I cannot give you--titles, or wealth, or even an heir. I am useless to you.” 

“You owe me nothing.” 

Fenris turns his head, pressing a soft kiss into his wrist. It’s chaste and simple; a gesture of good luck, perhaps, but it stirs something primal in Hawke nonetheless. He wants him, his heat and his need, so badly it thrums through his body like thunder. His gaze must be heavy with those unspoken desires because Fenris just smiles, shakes his head, and nudges him out of the bedroom. 

*

No expense has been spared at the soiree. Madame de Launcet, her hair piled high upon her head and decorated with small porcelain doves, hosts the event, gliding from room to room and tittering in her maddening way. She has hired an assortment of musicians who play from a well-lit spot in the parlor, their fingers like nervous birds. A fountain froths rich with wine. 

Hawke watches Fenris watch it all, green eyes clouded in unspoken judgment as the elven man sips from a fluted glass—expertly, Hawke might add. Fenris is comfortable here, among the gluttonous rabble of the nobility. He knows how to make himself quiet and small and blend in with his surroundings, speaking only when spoken to, tilting his head and smiling in a tepid way when a verbal response is not needed. Unlike the gentlemen and ladies of the Hightown elite, he does not wear a mask, no porcelain shell to hide his features, but Hawke knows he is still hiding. 

“What are the parties like in Tevinter?” Hawke asks. He does not often ask about the northern land where his lover made few fond memories, but sometimes, his curiosity gets the better of him. They have known each other for years, shared a bed and a home, and yet Fenris always reminds Hawke that he is an enigma not easily understood. 

The dance has Fenris’ attention, and at first, Hawke thinks he is admiring the ladies, their silk dresses, gloves, and skin. But his eyes are on their feet. Fenris follows the movements of the waltz, the occasional duet of men and women intertwining on the hardwood floor, the cadence of the music. It is yet another crack in the identity Fenris has crafted for himself. Here at the party, instead of withdrawing into shadows like the elven servants, Fenris looks strangely at ease. 

“They have masques,” Fenris says. “Though they are not like these. They are louder, hotter, bloodier, in the best circumstances. If a party does not involve at least one death and an orgy it is considered a failure.”

“Is it bad that I can never tell if you’re joking?”

Fenris chuckles. “Would you prefer it otherwise?”

Hawke dips his head back to take a sip of his wine, and then wipes his mouth with his arm. “You’re telling me that a bunch of nobles are constantly stabbing and screwing each other in public?”

“In Tevinter, we say that a man has two faces. His true face--his spirit face--and his outer face,” Fenris explains. “An altus mage could never commit an indecent act while wearing his outer face--among his family or at his place of service in the Circle. But behind closed doors, or at a dinner party, it is all fair game: affairs, debauchery, even murder. It helps if everyone else is intoxicated.”

Hawke feels a whisper of the northern country in his words, its heat and mystery. He settles back in his chair, and indicates the dancers by tipping his glass in their direction. “And what do stabby Tevinters think of the Orlesians?”

Fenris snorts, and smiles behind his glass as he takes a ginger sip. Hawke notices that his manner is impeccable. His little finger even departs from the glass, ever so slightly, when he drinks. “They call them  _inhumanus_. They believe the Orlesians do not understand life, sex, or art. They think that Val Royeaux treats indulgence too safely, and they are baffled as to why they are proud of this to the point of pretentiousness.”

This earns a laugh from Hawke. “I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t consider the Orlesian court ‘safe.’”

“And why not?” Fenris asks, distracted by the conversation. He is scrutinizing Hawke now, his demeanor intimidating even though he, as usual, does not make direct eye contact. “To survive in Val Royeaux, one must lie, or withhold the truth. That is a simple game. In Tevinter, they say precisely what they mean, and this brutal honesty claims many lives. One must be willing to die for any cause they commit to, not scatter like leaves when the weather turns.”

“It almost sounds as if you  _admire_ Tevinter,” Hawke says, with raised brows.

“An interesting observation,” Fenris responds, “and not altogether wrong. It is not a matter of whether I agree with it. It just...is. And for a very long time, it was all I knew.”

The music stops, and the men and women on the dance floor clap courteously for the accompaniment. The instrumentalists pause to collect themselves before beginning another song, slightly more jovial than the former.

Hawke gets to his feet and holds out a hand. His cheeks are warm from the alcohol. “Care to dance, Messere Fenris?”

“And make a fool of both of us?” 

“It seems like something you would enjoy--dancing, that is.” 

Fenris gives him a crooked smile and downs the rest of his glass. “I’m not nearly drunk enough.” At the look of disappointment on his face, he takes his hand and pulls him down to sit beside him. 

 “Later, perhaps,” he whispers in his ear, “I’ll show you what real dancing looks like.” 

Hawke shivers. 

 _That’s_ intriguing. 

 *

Fenris leads him by the hand to their hotel suite and presses him down against the bed. He kisses him with the taste of wine sweet on his lips and the scent of the sea in his hair. His skin is flush from alcohol and summer heat but he remains, as always, in complete control of himself and his inhibitions, sending Hawke into a barely-lucid trance with his affection. 

Hawke whimpers in disappointment when he pulls away, running his large, calloused hands one last time down Fenris’ shoulders with the hush of flesh on cloth. “Where are you going?” 

“Wait here,” Fenris says, kissing him once more, wet and soft. There is a moment of hesitation where his green eyes emote a fragility that breaks Hawke’s heart. “I want to show you something. Would you...allow me to blindfold you?”

“Maker,  _yes_.” 

Fenris’ brows arch. 

“Seriously!” Hawke laughs. “I would be honored.” 

Fenris smiles, and gracefully produces a single long, soft strip of black cloth. More careful than he needs to be, he wraps it around Hawke’s eyes and ties it with a loose knot at the back, knuckles grazing the back of his head. “It is--not out of any desire to control you. Please do not misunderstand. It will make me more comfortable if...but I will only be a moment.” 

He disappears with receding, bare-footed steps, leaving Hawke alone in the dark. 

Because his eyes cannot wander the ornate suite, his thoughts do, dim but happy threads he tries to weave together. Fenris has been acting strangely ever since they came to Orlais, absent-minded and coy, and tonight is no different--though Hawke is not suspicious of him. He trusts Fenris with all that’s left of his broken heart. 

Music drifts in through the open window. Every night, he hears it wafting up from the southern quarter along with the white rush of distant waves and rabble. He has never heard anything like it before. Even the most jaunty pub songs of Fereldan do not compare to the heat of this mysterious cacophony.  It is loud, heavy with the beat of drums and the rapid pluck of strings, a music of the common people who roam the capital city’s streets after sunset. 

He hears a faint jingling sound and a closing door. Feels Fenris take a deep, nervous breath against his neck. Then hands come up to the knot at the back of his head, and the blindfold falls away. 

He knows those white lyrium lines better than anyone, has tasted them with his tongue and follows them now with his eyes, down to where they nearly disappear beneath a flowing sheer garment that encircles his hips. Ornate silver and gold bead along the edge, shimmering like embers in the firelight and drawing attention to his body, the muscular elegance of his thighs, the curve of his ass. He’s wrapped bands of matching black cloth around his arms, and the look makes him appear so small, so vulnerable. 

“Fenris,” Hawke exhales. His jaw trembles and he moves without thinking, needing to touch, to worship. “How did you--” 

A finger on his lips to silence him.

“I would like to dance for you,” Fenris says. He avoids his gaze, his green eyes that remind Hawke of the murky, overgrown forests of the Kokari Wilds averted by instinct. “If it would please you?”

“It would,” Hawke says in a hush.

Fenris smiles. “Watch me.” He elegantly crosses over to the fire, a gentle sway to his hips. The way he walks is feminine, but subtle, softening him without being overbearing. Like most things it’s not apparent at first glance but Hawke has studied his steps and the tilt of his lips and the way he uses his eyes like a weapon. 

He remains there with his bare back to Hawke for a long while, his breathing calm but deep, centering himself. Then he raises his arms, and begins to move. 

Tentative, at first. Like his body is trying to remember. His hands are like birds, wings beating in a slow and seductive conversation that only he can fully understand. He takes a step, then another without moving from where he stands, his waist flexible but strong like the stem of some exotic flower bending for the sun. He  _vibrates._ Spins, and the garment around his waist chases after his movements, obedient. 

There are baubles in his ears and gold on his eyelids, and Hawke isn’t so sure that this sight is something he is truly meant to see. Fenris, however, has the intent of a predator, so aptly named. He embodies the grace of a viper and is twice as deadly; even when wielding a sword he does not convey quite so much concentration and primal instinct. It impresses Hawke beyond what the greatest opponent has ever accomplished. 

Fenris twists and turns and sweats and nimbly assaults ground with bare, rough-soled feet. His hips purl in time with the beat, almost sensually, and Hawke’s face grows hot as he thinks about Fenris in his sheets, moving like that up against him, taking his cock as he squirms. 

His gaze meets his and Hawke can only breathlessly stare. Dark lashes fan low against his cheeks, the deep green like a jungle in the fog, some remnant of Seheron oasis. A hint of a smile, gorgeous on his face, and then Fenris goes back under, lulled by the thrumming of the drums and the rush of the dance, closing his eyes. 

Fenris is dancing  _for him_. 

Hawke, who knows his body more intimately than his own. Hawke, who has brushed his sweat-damp hair, kissed his neck where the earrings brush his skin, run both hands over his thighs and felt his strong muscles tremble in want. There’s something strangely intimate about the fact that Fenris trusts him enough to show him what must be a well-guarded secret, a relic of his past that he does not want uncovered--not without consent.  

Hawke clenches a fist around the bedspread and squeezes. 

Fenris is lost in the dance now, somewhere else deep in the recesses of his battle-worn mind, half in the Fade, half in reality, sucked into the in-between space where Leto tills wet soil and Fenris’ flesh screams with ghosts. He spins erratically and nearly loses his balance, stumbling straight into Hawke’s solid form.

Fenris is panting, lips parted, cheeks pink. Hawke opens his mouth, eyes damp, desire shuddering in his loins, and then gasps as Fenris presses his face into his shoulder. Hawke lets his arms fold around him like a warm and safe cocoon. The noise, the smoke, the room, it’s all forgotten as he closes his eyes and breathes him in, weak-kneed from the contact. 

“I love you,” he whispers into his beach-white hair, because it’s all he can think to say. He smells like incense, coconut and sweat. The baubles in his ear cut into his cheek but he doesn’t care. “Are you with me, my love? Can you hear me?” 

Fenris nods. “I’ll be fine.” 

For a moment, they both let the music and the warm cackle of the fire drown out their shared silence. Hawke holds Fenris with the reverence he feels he deserves, stunned that he exists and that he would ever let him touch him like this. He feels inferior. Fenris is deadly and beautiful and so good _,_ so noble, even after the magister did his best to crush his spirit. 

“Where did you learn to dance like that?” Hawke asks at last, cheek red. 

“Where I learned most of my skills,” Fenris says vaguely. “Let’s not spoil the moment with a sad story.”

“And these earrings?” Hawke reaches out to play with them, lightly brushing the bits of gold dangling from sharply pointed ears. Fenris leans into his touch. 

“Isabela,” he says. “She was.... _more_ than enthusiastic, when she learned I had a mysterious talent, and borrowed"--stole--"a few things. I decided that now was as good a time as any to finally show you. I honestly was afraid that you would find it...shameful, or...” He dips his head self-consciously but Hawke grabs his chin. 

“Maker, Fenris, listen to me,” he says, tears stringing his eyes again. “Nothing you could ever do is shameful, least of all this. You are so beautiful. So, so beautiful. Thank you for sharing this with me.” He kisses him to demonstrate the fact, though perhaps this is in part because his desire cannot be contained any longer. “You make me feel like the luckiest man in Thedas, that you would ever look twice at me.” 

Fenris smirks. “A bit more than twice.” His eyes close as Hawke’s lips brush his neck. “And I...I...” He clutches his broad shoulders. Squeezes. Tips his head to the side to give Hawke more skin to kiss and suck, encouraging him with a moan that shakes. “You’re really hard...” 

Hawke groans, muffled against his pulse, because it’s absolutely true. He’s lost his mind with love, with want and it’s only his tight control and respect for his lover that keeps him from ravishing him. He wants to make him forget all of the bad things that have ever happened to him, spoil him with the bliss of lovemaking, make him feel safe and wanted and whole. 

Fenris gives him a dangerous look. And slowly, slowly bumps their bodies together with a sensual roll of his hips. Hawke’s gaze goes unfocused. He can barely manage breathing as Fenris begins to gyrate in his lap, his movements lethargic and slow and beautiful. He’s unbothered by the hands that settle on his hips or the way Hawke lets his head fall, panting his name into his neck. 

Hawke is in a daze. He presses wet, open-mouthed kisses to his lips, when he can reach them, but he’s never close enough to really taste him--Fenris won’t let him. Instead Fenris squirms over his hot and heavy cock, dancing in his lap, arms slung around his neck. His skin is damp with sweat, smudging the kohl around his eyes and the gloss on his lips. 

“Can you feel what you do to me, love?” Hawke breathes. “You get me so worked up I can’t  _think...”_

 _“_ Good,” Fenris says. He twists so that he’s sitting his lap, and has him put his arms around his waist, encouraging him to touch. He does not stop, little moans escaping him as as Hawke grinds up against his moving body. He takes his hand. He sucks suggestively at each finger, one by one, lolling his head back on Hawke’s shoulder so that he can watch his face.

Hawke helplessly breathes in the scent of his hair. “You’re so...soft....” His voice shakes. He grinds to the gentle rhythm Fenris sets with his mouth, imaging it’s his cock being pleasured by Fenris’ skilled tongue. He isn’t nearly as graceful. 

“What do you want to do with me, Garrett?” Fenris asks, then goes back hot and wet around his fingers.

“Fuck, Fenris,” he gasps. “I want to make love to you right here and now, let all of Orlais hear when I make you come in my sheets. I want everyone to know that the Champion of Kirkwall is fucking you until you’re breathless from crying out, my love, my darling...” 

Fenris is trembling in his lap. “Yes...” 

Hawke kisses his neck, up to his ear, pleased that he closes his eyes and whimpers and turns his head to seek his mouth. “But first I’m going to touch you and worship you and make you feel as beautiful as you are. Is that alright? Is that what you want?” 

“Yes, yes...” 

He doesn’t protest when Hawke lifts him into his arms and lays him down on the bed, doesn’t question when Hawke twines their hands together and kisses him slow and deep until he’s arching up off the mattress and moaning into his mouth. He doesn’t say anything until Hawke abandons his lips with a whisper of his name and teases lower, sucking at his collarbone, circling his nipple with his tongue until it hardens. 

“Hawke,” he moans. He shakes and fists at the bed spread. 

“Do you want me to stop?” A serious question, and one that Fenris knows he is allowed to answer. 

“No.” 

“Tell me if you change your mind,” Hawke says. “Please.” 

He gives him a moment to catch his breath, and then goes back to his body, kissing and teasing and sucking any little place he knows drives Fenris crazy: the dip in his hip, the inside of his elbow, each of his tapered fingertips. He carefully unlaces and then inches the elaborate, stolen garment down his hips, his thighs, pressing soft kisses to newly-bared skin. Fenris doesn’t wear underclothes, for comfort, and the image of his sex makes Hawke groan in virile lust.

Hawke looks up at him, gaze reverent. “I wish you could see yourself right now,” he whispers. “You have an appreciation for art.” Fenris is flush and damp and breathless, drowning in the affections of his lover, and it shows. He lies there trembling, but relaxed, hands limp beside his head as he watches Hawke watch him.  

Hawke pulls the garment down past his knees and then off of his body, tossing it gently aside. He kisses his feet, his smooth calves, the lyrium lines that twist up his thighs--wet, open-mouthed kisses and nips as he indulges in the warmth of Fenris’ skin and the breathy moans he’s rewarded with. By the time he reaches his cock Fenris is hard and wet. 

 “I want to make you come,” Hawke says, nuzzling his naked thigh. “Fenris, please, I want you to come in my mouth. If it would please you?” He smirks, repeating his words back at him.  

Fenris nods, lips parted, and his hand finds his hair. He’s tense with anticipation, but not with fear--never with fear, not with Garrett. Hawke has never been anything but gentle with him and conscientious of his aversion to touch _,_ to the point where Fenris cannot even clearly remember intimacy with anyone else. 

Hawke goes down with a tentative stroke and then circling of his tongue, teasing him just enough to draw this out. But Maker, is he eager to hear him moan again. He lowers his mouth around him with a soft, wet noise of his own and begins to slowly move his head, encouraged by Fenris’ sudden hitching breath. 

He wraps his hands around his hips and holds him still, squeezing gently, rubbing slow circles with his thumbs, as he makes love to him with his tongue. He is not an expert, but he knows how to make Fenris squirm, knows what makes him feel good, and that’s part of why he genuinely loves doing this. His cock thrums with need, confined to his breeches, as Fenris moans for him. He fights the urge to touch himself or fuck the bed. 

“Garrett, please,” Fenris whines. “Please...” 

“Shh, I’ll take care of you, my love,” Hawke whispers, then resumes sucking his cock. He goes deeper, swallowing him up with greedy, wet noises, heavy lust thrumming through him as Fenris cries out his name and twists about in his sheets. “Gods, Fenris...Fenris, can I put my fingers inside of you...?” 

“I-I...yes...yes...” Fenris pants. “Please, I want you, I want you to take me...” 

Hawke fumbles helplessly with his trousers as he leans over Fenris, trying to reach the bedside table. He closes his eyes and shakes when Fenris decides to use the opportunity to lean up and kiss his neck. The elf’s hand finds his crotch and helps him pull himself out while Hawke dribbles too much oil onto his fingers. 

“Fuck me,” Fenris purrs into his ear. He spreads his legs beneath him. “Please, please fuck me...” 

Hawke presses a slick, hot finger inside of him and feels him tighten in pleasure. He slowly, slowly opens him up with his fingers, slips down between his legs with his tongue on his cock until Fenris is close to the edge, writhing up into his mouth. Then Hawke tortuously pulls himself back up to his level, naked with him on the bed, savoring the feel of their bodies flush against one another. 

“Are you ready?” 

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?” 

An impatient scowl.  

Hawke sinks into him like a stone in water, both of them hot and wet. Fenris pants and scrabbles for him as if needing him closer, wrapping his legs around him so that he can force him deeper. He’s shaking so hard. Hawke forces his want, his need, back a little so that he can press their foreheads together, can whisper sweet nothings in his ear. 

“Does that feel good?” 

“Yes...” 

“Do you like the way I fill you, Fen? Can you feel how much I want you?” 

There’s no response, this time, but Fenris’ heavy-lidded eyes say everything he can’t, and the raw desire in them pushes Hawke to move. He draws back, then in, sharp and deep, making Fenris give a little gasp and dig his nails into his shoulders. Again, again, heavy and dragging, until Hawke has a steady beat to follow, pleasuring Fenris with every thrust, with every inch of his steel-hard cock. 

Fenris starts to move with him, up into his hard thrusts. It’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen, felt, Fenris like liquid silk rocking his hips as he’s fucked. Hawke slows himself down and lets his head fall onto Fenris’ shoulder, drowning in him, savoring the naked heat of their bodies as the sounds of their lovemaking engulf them, slick and wet. 

“Fen...Fenris...” 

“More,” Fenris gasps. 

He obliges, taking him hard, deep, but gently, focusing on bringing him to climax, on making him feel like he’s overwhelmed with the heat and the fullness of Hawke inside of him. He kisses him as he slips a hand between his legs, massaging his cock with oil and the slickness of his own sex. When Fenris is trembling, eyes shut tight, lost in that in-between place, Hawke knows he’s almost there. 

“Garrett, Garrett, Garrett... _ah_ \--”  

He follows that desperate urge, screwing him into the mattress without thought or volition, the sound of his moans driving him harder into his body. Soon Fenris is shaking, writhing up around him, his head thrown back as he comes for him, beautiful and mindless in a final surge of heat. Hawke murmurs his name and chases him to the end, feeling him come wet and hot, tasting his moans in his mouth.

He spills his seed inside of him with a final, deep thrust. He feels it dripping back down his cock like hot rain. He trembles and nuzzles his face, wordless and breathless, for a moment, but not without affection. 

Fenris kisses him. Somewhere, deep inside his chest, Hawke thinks he can hear him purring. 

*

“You said that you learned to dance in Tevinter,” Hawke says much later, when they’re tangled together beneath the sheets. “And that it was a sad story.” 

He feels Fenris swallow where’s he’s tucked beneath his chin. The elf is quiet for a long time, and Hawke has the sensibility not to persist. 

“I did whatever I could to increase my usefulness,” he says, finally. “And dancing to entertain was one of my...options. It may sound difficult to believe, but I genuinely liked it. Dance, not--what came after. Danarius enjoyed putting me on display, and he enjoyed using the threat of violent company against me.” 

Hawke stares out at the darkness. “He...did that to you?”

“...You are so shocked that he really  _was_ as bad as I insist he was?” 

“No, darling, no, I believe you,” Hawke says in one breath, holding him close. “I just don’t want to. I don’t want to think about the cruelty he or his... _guests_ must have put you through, I don’t want to think about you in that situation. It didn’t bother you, that they watched you? That they took something so beautiful and intimate and turned it into...?” He regrets saying it even as it leaves his lips, but Fenris doesn’t flinch. 

“They would have even if I refused to play their game,” Fenris says. “And it would have been...unpleasant for me, if I had. Perhaps it sounds strange to you, but I enjoyed having at least some degree of control. If I danced because I liked it, it was a small victory. If I danced then I would not have to kill. It was enough.” 

“You are very good at it, whatever the case.” 

Fenris gives a deep chuckle. “Not by Tevinter standards. For me it was a gimmick Danarius exploited to entertain his guests. I was passable, and he only wanted to plant seeds of jealousy, draw attention to how I looked, make other men want me enough to buy my company. But in Tevinter, they train slaves just to dance. My foremost utility was to kill.” 

“If you were a bodyguard then why would Danarius treat you like nothing more than...?” 

“A whore?” Fenris says, and it’s Hawke who flinches. “I can only speculate that he wanted to increase the attention given to me, and thus, to him. But I was more than just a concubine. I was dangerous. I had teeth. Perhaps that was just it; perhaps they liked the thought that something as intangible as power could force a predator to submit.” 

“But not now.” 

“No,” Fenris agrees, and his tone is colored by years of anger and violence held back. “Not now.” 

Hawke lets out a shaky breath. He squeezes him closer to his chest, holding him as if he is brittle and breakable although he’s demonstrated many times that isn’t true. It doesn’t matter that Fenris is strong. Hawke is weak, and he needs him near, under his wing, for the sake of his own comfort. “Why did you show this to me?” 

Fenris smiles up at him and cards his gentle hand through Hawke’s hair. His smiles are rare, bright things like falling stars. “Dancing used to be...therapeutic. For a moment, I could pretend that nothing else existed, nothing but myself and my own heart. It was a way to press out everything. Danarius, bloodshed, the question of my fate. It let me breathe a moment.” 

His eyes grow serious, and he caresses his cheek. “But Hawke, with you, I don’t need to pretend. I  _wanted_ you to watch me, to want me. You take all of the dark, all of the--twisted feelings inside of me and you make me feel...clean. I could not choose how Danarius would exploit me but I can decide what pieces of me from that time are  _mine,_ and I can choose to dance for you because I like it and because I love...” He trails off on a tremor, lowering his eyes. 

“I love you too, Fenris,” Hawke says, kissing him softly, briefly. His eyes burn with the purest of tears. “You have all of my heart.” 


End file.
